Page 9 of The Rose of Blacksword

8

Cleve was still asleep when dusk fell. By then Rosalynde had foraged for mustard and arrowhead, sweet rush and wild onions. When Blacksword returned with two rabbits already gutted, she quickly built a fire while he skinned the creatures and then constructed a simple spit. She stewed the greens in a small amount of water, but as their dinner cooked, there was little conversation. Unfortunately, there was also little else to look at but one another.

He had clearly bathed before returning, for his clothes were damp and his light hair was groomed back from his face to fall neatly at his shoulders. She too had taken the opportunity to wash her hair and the rest of her body in the icy stream, although she had done so most hurriedly. At each noise she had jumped, each creak of branch or rustle of leaves. She’d been terrified that he might somehow return to spy upon her, and yet that fear had been insufficient to prevent her from taking a bath. Stripped to only her kirtle, she had submerged herself in the deepest portion of the chilly pool, then quickly scrubbed her skin with a clump of latherwort. Once satisfied and refreshed, she’d wrung the linen kirtle out as best she could. Then shivering in the wet and clinging garment, she had quickly washed her tattered gown as well. While it had dried draped over a glossy holly bush, she’d gathered whatever edible leaves and roots she could find. Now, although the gown was still damp in places, she nevertheless felt infinitely better.

Rosalynde ran her fingers through the length of her almost-dry hair, freeing a tangle and smoothing down the unruly mass. Once more her eyes veered to the man who sat so silently across the fire from her. In the shadows of the forest it was dark, although the dying sun still lit the western sky. Rut despite the dimness he was clearly revealed by the fire’s golden glow, and Rosalynde could not pretend to be unaffected by his overwhelming masculinity.

There was about him a savageness, something akin to a huge beast of prey. His face was harshly etched in the flickering light of the fire: high cheekbones, strong jaw, and eyes that watched her with unnerving perceptiveness. Only his lips revealed any hint of softness, for they were finely formed, almost precise in their curving fullness. Unbidden the memory of the kiss he’d given her on the gallows pricked her, and she felt a faint heat creep up her cheeks. It had only been to please the crowd, she reminded herself. He had done it to keep the spectators entertained and thereby help the two of them to flee. Yet she also remembered his mocking jibe: “Next time open your mouth,” he’d said. But when he’d tried to abandon her, he’d once more made it clear that her feminine charms were of no interest to him. All he wanted was a horse, weapons, and coins. An urchin, such as he considered her to be, interested him not whatsoever.

Logically she did not care. In fact, she was glad he was not the least bit attracted to her, for that would make things difficult indeed. But she nonetheless could not squelch the simmering anger she felt every time he was near. He was too arrogant by half, she fumed as she poked needlessly at the cooking vegetables with a pointed stick. And he had neither honor nor morals to commend him despite his physical prowess and unmistakable virility.

He leaned forward then too and turned the two hares on the makeshift spit. But his eyes stayed on her and her heart’s pace unaccountably sped up.

“The meat is near done.”

Rosalynde swallowed convulsively at his deep, rumbling voice. “The vegetables as well,” she murmured. She frowned and ducked her head, letting her hair fall protectively before her to cut off his unsettling stare.

“We’ll leave as soon as night is well fallen.”

“I should awaken Cleve then.”

“Let him sleep,” he said before she could move to the boy. “He appears to be resting well and besides, there are some things we can discuss as we sup.”

“Things?” Rosalynde’s gaze returned abruptly to him. There was something in his voice that alarmed her although she could not say why. “What kind of things?”

But he only gave her a shrug and an offhanded smile. “I thought you might tell me of Stanwood.”

“Stanwood?” she repeated, sure now that he planned something.

“Yes, Stanwood. That is your home, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes,” she replied as she bit at her lower lip. “But I haven’t been there in eight years.”

He turned the spit again, then continued in a conversational tone. “Why were you away so long?”

Rosalynde paused before answering, trying to determine what he might be up to. But she could discern no real harm in answering him with the truth. “My mother died giving birth to my brother. We were sent to live with my aunt and uncle at Millwort Castle. But now that Giles is dead.…” She trailed off at that unhappy memory, and for a while the silence was broken only by the rush of the wind in the high canopy of the trees and the contented crackling of the fire.

“What will you do once you arrive there?”

Rosalynde raised her somber eyes back to him. “I’m not sure—oh, I see what you mean.” She gave him a condescending glance. “I’ll tell my father that you brought us home safely. That we would never have managed alone. If you’re worried about the reward—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “I meant, what will you do once you’re back at Stanwood?”

“Oh.” Rosalynde’s brow creased a little at this unexpected question. Why should he care about such a thing? “I suppose I will take over the household duties, that is, until my father selects a husband for me—”

As soon as the words were out, she wished devoutly that she had not said them. They had not spoken outright about the unfortunate fact of their handfasting. However, now that the subject was raised, albeit in a roundabout manner, she was not so certain she really wished to discuss it.

There was an awkward silence. He removed the skewer and the two hares from the spit and placed them to cool on another pair of forked branches he’d stuck in the ground. Then he relaxed back and turned his clear gray eyes on her.

“You may not wed for a year and a day,” he commented rather casually.

Rosalynde took heart at his forthright manner. “Yes, I know.”

“Your father will no doubt understand,” he remarked again in that same offhand manner. But this time Rosalynde started in alarm.

“I … It was …” She took a quick breath and then shut her mouth. Her father did not ever need to know about the handfasting. It was her fondest hope to keep it her secret. Sir Edward was a difficult man to predict. She feared enough telling him about Giles. To admit to such a pagan marriage would be too much for him to take. No, she’d decided before not to tell him, and she felt more strongly than ever that he should not know.

“You will get your reward,” she said in her chilliest tone. “But only if my father does not hear of that accursed ceremony.” Then she waited with bated breath for his response.

“But will I get the reward I desire ?” he said. This time there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice.

A cold lump settled in Rosalynde’s stomach. Here it was, she thought. Now that he’d had time to think out how best he could profit from her misfortune, he was about to bargain with her for her very life. And Cleve’s as well. Her fear and resentment quickly mounted to fury. “You agreed to a horse and weapons. And perhaps some gold. I can promise you no more. My father is the one who will pay the reward. You’ll have to bargain with him.”

She stared at him belligerently, hoping her show of bravado would make him think twice about this greedy little plot of his. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him, and she tried to read his reaction in his face. But his expression had not changed, and for a moment she panicked. Surely he would not be so bold as to try to ransom her! He had no weapons, no means of escape, and no one to help him act out such a devious plan. He would be a fool even to attempt such a reckless move. But staring at him, seeing his confident face and unworried posture, Rosalynde wondered whether he might still try such a thing.

“As I recall, you suggested a horse and weapons and the gold coins,” he answered easily. “What I said was that I would accept a reward. But I reserve for myself the right to name it.”

Rosalynde shifted anxiously on the log she was sitting upon. She could not deny his words, for she knew it was she who had suggested the form of reward. But if not a horse, weapons, and money, what did the ungrateful wretch want?

“I saved your life,” she reminded him scathingly.

“Only because you believed I could save yours. I’d say we’re even on that score.”

“You haven’t gotten us to Stanwood yet,” she retorted with much heat.

“But I will,” he answered smoothly. “And I’ll want my reward when I do.”

Rosalynde was too angry to think straight. She was infuriated by his overwhelming greed and his complete lack of normal human gratitude. Yet a tiny part of her was disappointed too. She’d thought that he was different from those other men when she’d seen him on the gallows. He’d had a certain dignity despite his filthy appearance, torn clothes, and desperate predicament. Yet now she knew he was as bad—no, probably worse—than them all. For he was cunning and manipulative in addition to being cruel and without any conscience whatsoever. How could she have been so wrong?

But Rosalynde knew the answer to that. She’d been desperate and she’d taken the only opportunity open to her. And now, just as then, she must make the best of her dreadful circumstances. She lifted her chin a notch and stared at him with ill-disguised contempt. “Go ahead then, name the unholy price you set as your reward.”

He smiled then, with an expression completely at odds with the selfishness that she knew drove him. His eyes glowed warmly and his lips relaxed in what seemed the most natural and genuine smile. For a moment she almost let down her guard and a tiny little flutter stirred some where in her chest. But she resolutely quashed such foolish responses to him. This was only another example of how deceptive he could be. Especially now, when he was freshly cleaned and looking so handsome in the fire’s gentle light, she must be ready for the worst.

“Well?” she prodded when he only stared at her with that same friendly if somewhat bemused expression on his face. “What is it you want?”

He tossed the twig he was holding into the fire, then took a slow breath. “Before this year is out, you and I shall be properly wed in the Church.”

If he had demanded the moon from her, or the stars that littered the night skies like random jewels, Rosalynde could not have been more astounded. Marry her in the Church? She shook her head slightly, certain she had misheard him. Yet his face, so watchful and waiting, told her otherwise. She had heard him correctly, yet she could still not believe it. Then she realized her mouth was gaping open, and she hastily closed it.

“That … that’s preposterous,” she finally managed to say. “It’s absurd. Why … why … it’s impossible.” Then she stood up nervously and moved nearer to where Cleve lay sleeping.

“We’re already married,” he continued in a reasonable tone, as if she had not responded to him at all.

“That heathen ritual hardly compares to a proper wedding with the blessings of a priest,” she muttered fiercely.

“That’s why I would be wed in the Church.” Then he too stood up and began to approach her. “Perhaps if I told you a little of myself—”

“No!” Rosalynde gasped. She circled away from him, trying desperately to keep the fire between them. As it became clear that he was not joking, that he was quite serious about this ludicrous demand for them to be properly wed, her heart began to race. Then when he tried to come closer, her shock turned to panic. “I already know enough about you! You’re a common thief and … and a murderer!”

With the fire between them, he looked for all the world like a demon sent to torture her with a living hell on earth. He was so huge and powerful, his menace momentarily leashed but nonetheless indisputably there. And there was little she could do to protect herself from him. Then he smiled again, only this time it was less warm and more taunting.

“Tell me, Lady Rosalynde,” he said, emphasizing her tide. “Is it the fact that you believe I’m a criminal or that I’m common which upsets you more?” When she only glared at him suspiciously he continued. “If I was a criminal of noble title would you agree to my request? Or perhaps if I were a common man but honest, you would say yes.”

Outraged by his mocking, Rosalynde lashed out at him. “Since you are neither honest nor noble, that hardly bears comment. You’d best content yourself with a horse and a sword, for that’s the most reward you shall get!”

At that tension-filled moment Cleve let out a groan. Then he turned over a little and, with a sudden jerk, abruptly sat up. “Milady?”

The campsite was silent. In the flickering light of the dying fire, the three of them were each rimmed with gold and shadowed with black. The meal sat ready but untouched. The fire shifted as a log broke and there was a quick hiss and a small shower of sparks. Night birds had started to call and the evening breeze was cool and refreshing. But the animosity that crackled in the air completely belied the apparent peacefulness of the setting.

“Lady Rosalynde?” Cleve spoke once more as his eyes moved from her to the man who towered so threateningly across the fire from them. Then the boy’s face lowered in a frown and he too struggled to his feet. “What is he up to?” he asked suspiciously.

Rosalynde was at his side at once, with an arm around him to provide the swaying page with support. “It’s nothing, Cleve. Nothing. And you should not get up so abruptly,” she added in as normal a tone as she could muster. But she shot a fierce glance at the still-staring Blacksword, half demanding, half pleading that he keep his peace before the boy.

When the wretch pursed his lips thoughtfully, however, then deliberately crossed the clearing to help her with Cleve, she was sure he meant to drag the ailing boy into their argument. But to her surprise he only lowered the protesting lad back to the ground with a curt “Stay there.” Then he turned his steel-gray eyes on Rosalynde.

“Your mistress and I disagree on the best manner in which to proceed. However, since she asked me to guide her to safety, I reserve the right to make any and all decisions about exactly how that shall be accomplished.” His glance fell briefly to Cleve. “I suggest we all eat now so that we can cover a goodly distance under cover of darkness.”

To Rosalynde’s great relief Cleve seemed mollified by the man’s smooth words. She, however, read the double meaning in them and was hard-pressed to stifle the angry retort that rose on her lips. “The best manner to proceed,” indeed, she fumed silently. But there was nothing she could do, not without revealing her shameful liaison with this man to Cleve. And that she would not do. It would be bad enough if Cleve knew of the handfast vow she’d taken. Even if she could restrain him from trying to defend her honor, she would then always have to worry that his hasty temper might give her away to someone else. More than anything she wished to keep this entire episode from anyone else’s knowledge, particularly her father’s. The best way to do that seemed to be through absolute secrecy. Yet if this dreadful man insisted that she honor her vow …

It was simply too horrible to even imagine, and she fought down the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. Moving woodenly, performing the automatic task of serving the meat, she went over her options in her mind. Then when she found nothing there to cling to, she tried to recall anything he’d said or done that she might somehow turn against him or use to accuse him. She had no problem doing that, and she satisfied her thwarted fury by recounting to herself every time he’d slighted her or treated her poorly. For someone she’d known so briefly, there were an appallingly large number of such occurrences. By the time he put out the fire and erased all signs of their temporary campsite, she could barely contain her outrage nor her eagerness to accuse him. Unfortunately, Cleve remained awake as they resumed their journey. Although he reluctantly rode once more on the makeshift sling that Blacksword pulled, his eyes were open, watching Rosalynde as she trailed behind. But although Rosalynde kept her silence as they left the dark forest and struck out along a cart track that crossed the open wastelands, she knew the subject of her vow to the insufferable Blacksword had not been exhausted. He would bring it up again, and when he did, she would be ready. He would not catch her off-guard as he had this time with his outrageous demand.

They seemed to walk for hours. The moon showed its silver crescent face in the east, then slowly wended its way across the vast sky while they moved relentlessly forward. Had it not been for that moon, Rosalynde would have been completely unsure of their course. As it was, she knew only that they must head generally east, toward the moon and toward the eventual dawn. The silent man who pulled Cleve so effortlessly might have been leading them anywhere, she knew. But the moon’s constant presence reassured her that they proceeded generally as they should. Twice they passed stone-fenced fields and the dark shapes of slumbering villages. Once they saw a shepherd sleeping with his flock, probably due to the lambing season. But they carefully skirted anyplace with people. They were too vulnerable to attack to trust anyone.

Hours passed before the first streaks of dawn’s light showed in the east. By the time they reached a willow-lined brook her feet were aching, her legs were numb with fatigue, and one of her toes throbbed painfully. It was difficult to avoid every stone in the dark, and more than once she had stubbed her toes. But she had been determined not to cry out or complain in any way. Even if she had, she thought spitefully, that crude brute would not have cared. He’d not looked around even once to ascertain that she was keeping up with him. Why, she could have collapsed in utter exhaustion and he would never have known. Then where would his demands have gotten him? she wondered sourly. Some husband he would make.

When he lowered the end of the carryall at the edge of the brook, she stalked past him in a huff and moved down to a grassy slope of bank. Then she lifted her skirts and waded straight out into the icy water.

“Ahh.” A low moan of relief escaped her as the cold water soothed her burning feet. She flexed her toes against the slippery pebbles, then dug them into the loose bottom of the brook, reveling in the delicious relief it gave. She waded out a little farther, letting the refreshing water lap up almost to her knees, then bent over to scoop up a handful to drink.

“How are your feet?”

Rosalynde started at the quietly spoken words and jerked upright to find Blacksword standing directly behind her.

“They … they’re fine.” She stumbled back a step, clutching her skirt more tightly in her hand.

“I kept the two rabbit skins. If you like I can make some slippers for your feet.”

He moved forward as he spoke and Rosalynde stepped back again. She was so unnerved by his nearness and so astounded by his surprising thoughtfulness that she was unmindful of the chilly stream, which caught now at her kirtle and heavier gown. But the current was stronger than she thought and the streambed more slippery. For an instant she tottered backward, unable to right herself in time to prevent a fall. But the imposing man before her quickly caught her arms, then unexpectedly pulled her nearer onto firmer footing.

“Be careful,” he cautioned her with a hint of a smile on his harshly masculine face. For a long moment their eyes met. Rosalynde was obliquely aware that his hands slid a little way up her arms, then tightened ever so slightly. Like the pounding of a thousand drums, her heart’s rhythm increased, and she was caught between terror and a sudden irrational thrill. Something sparked between them, sharp and strong and unmistakable. She’d felt it on the gallows when she had grabbed his tunic in anger, and she felt it now even more vividly.

It was fear, she told herself, as his gaze held her mesmerized before him. The snake entranced the mouse just so, as the owl also froze the helpless hare. He was a predator and she was his unfortunate prey. Yet a part of her knew he meant her no harm, at least not in the way she would have expected. Warmth seeped up from somewhere in her belly, spreading an unaccustomed heat throughout her body, and still she stood ensnared by his powerful yet gentle grasp on her. Then he moved a half pace nearer and logic miraculously leapt to her rescue. With a violent jerk she wrenched herself away from him.

“Unhand me. I am quite able to take care of myself.”

“Oh?” One of his brows raised skeptically. “That must be why you took a husband from Dunmow’s gallows, because you are so able to take care of yourself.”

Rosalynde wished she could call back her angry words. She should not stoop to argue with such a man as he was. Drawing herself up as best she could, she gave him her coolest stare. “I did find a way out of my predicament, didn’t I? And a way for you out of yours.”

Then, slipping and stumbling, she stalked upstream, until the broad security of a cedar tree stood clearly between them.

She did not see the faint smile that played across his face, nor quite hear his softly murmured words. “From the fat into the fire you have leapt, my sweet little wife. And it appears I have assumed one life sentence for another.”

She peered nervously at him, wondering at his odd mood as she tried in vain to slow her breathing and ease the pounding in her chest. What deviousness did he plot now? Did he think to woo her over to his ridiculous plan with his offer of rabbit-skin shoes? Did he think she was fool enough to be influenced by his potent stare or his masculine embrace?

Had he meant to kiss her?

She stared back at his shadowy form still standing alongside the stream and nervously licked her lips. She frowned when they tingled with unexpected sensitivity, and unwillingly she recalled once more the kiss he’d given her on the gallows. That kiss had pleased the spectators enormously. They’d cheered and clapped and raucously called for more. She, however, had been shocked and horrified.

But that wasn’t precisely true, and as Rosalynde watched Blacksword stoop down to cup water in his hands for a drink, she could not hide the truth from herself. She had been horrified by the terrible predicament she was in, and shocked by the boldness of the kiss. But something in her had responded to the unique feel of his hard mouth pressing down on hers.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” she whispered in prayer, then made a quick sign of the cross as that same unsettling warmth twisted in her stomach once more. What in the name of heaven was wrong with her? she worried as she bent down to splash her overheated face with water. Yet she could not help but wonder what that kiss would have been like if she had opened her mouth, as it appeared was the proper method for kissing. She slid her tongue experimentally along her lips, marveling at the strange sensuality of it. Then in quick mortification she ceased such foolishness and frowned at her own perversity. Such feelings should be reserved for her husband—her true husband, she amended hastily as she glanced back at the intolerable cad who irked her so incessantly. But he was gone and, to her complete chagrin, she felt a faint wave of disappointment. Despite her every reason for caution where he was concerned—he was black-hearted in every sense of the word—she was nonetheless consumed with a new curiosity. She justified it as only the normal reactions of a young woman of marriageable age. Yet as Rosalynde slowly picked her way through the dawn’s dim shadows, she could not deny that a new emotion had joined her other feelings of fear and dislike and mistrust. Before he’d only been someone whose presence she must endure in order to find the safety of her home.

Now he was a mystery, enigmatic and intriguing. A challenge she found hard to ignore. Anything further she refused to consider.